My mousse is upset with me.
She sits by the table with crossed arms and frown,
staring cold chocolate frostings of sprinkled icings
with a hint of blackcurrant.
I suspect she is an undiagnosed passive/aggressive.
I have sacrificed my all to please her
Stirred, whipped, blended, folded, creamed, licked, kneaded
But she remains indifferent, aloof, my own little noir mousse Venus in furs.
This of course excites me.
We have a love/hate relationship – I love her and she hates that.
Others tell me that she is beautiful with long black hair
And smooth dark skin, a luxurious soft body but
It is not the physical condiments that I desire
Though I once hugged her without thinking
and felt her respond warmly
I do not care if she has a lover, or many lovers,
I want merely the possibilities
The infinite mysteries of her dark being
and the strangeness of the secrets within.
That’s why my mousse is upset with me,
She doesn’t know whether to kill me
or let me eat her.
Terence Rissetto
I am of Maori descent, with Danish, Italian and English thrown in the mix. My background includes a degree in Existential Philosophy, working as a psychiatric nurse in Australia, and a career as a public servant. I woke up from a self-induced coma of 25 years when I heard a Bukowski reading and thought it was Kevin Spacey before he became Lester Burnham. My work attempts to show there are other realities and other ways of looking at them. You can reach me at oystercatcher210@gmail.com.
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